


Parliament of Fowles

by Sunflower_CA



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen, Romance, Valentines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:29:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3431273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunflower_CA/pseuds/Sunflower_CA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuuri Hotakainen, the expedition skald of "Stand Still, Stay Silent," revives the Old World holiday of Valentine's Day for her own purposes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parliament of Fowles

Parliament of Fowles  
PART 1 

_Fiddles and flutes played as strong arms swept Tuuri up into the dance, whirling madly around a palatial hall lit with thousands of electric bulbs. Her feet, in glittering Old-Time slippers, barely seemed to touch the floor as her long princess skirt flared around her ankles. Then the whirling stopped, the arms tightened around her, and golden hair brushed her brow as a voice murmured…_

“Tuuri? Tuuri!” 

Fingers snapped in front of her nose.   
“Wake up, little pal! I said, can you read back the status report?”

The Finnish skald dropped her notebook, blushingly scooped it back up, and read:

“Year 91, Day 119. Before-Times reckoning: Day 42. Weather: Warm and rainy.   
“Status report: Disabled list, four personnel. None serious. Eide: Black eye, mild concussion. Hotakainen, L: shin splints. Madsen: wrenched back. Vasterstrom: food poisoning, minor burns.”

(Lalli murmured: “I told him those weren’t the kind of mushrooms you can eat, or at least without saying the right words while they cook. But he just ignored me and kept jabbering, as usual…”)

“At Capt. Eide’s recommendation, we are taking a three-day rest and recovery period while we wait for the weather to turn in our favor. Dr. Madsen will conduct a thorough inventory while the Captain leads weapons and self-defense practice.  
“Books found at our last stop include…”

“All right, brainiac, you can save those details for our bosses,” Sigrun said affably. “You’re having too much fun with ‘em, anyway. I should check out the one that makes you giggle so much – Halvtreds Gråtoner, is that it? Although gray is such a boring color…”

“Ooh, uh, it is boring. That’s what makes me giggle,” Tuuri said hastily. The last thing she wanted at the moment was more of Sigrun’s “war stories,” full of details that seemed not only unnerving but anatomically unlikely. 

“All right, crew, an hour to yourselves, then we meet back here at 0900 hours for judo practice. Remember to strip and remake your bunks neatly, or the good doctor here’s going to have some words with you about protocol.”

As the crew got up to leave, Sigrun grabbed her wrist. “Hey, Mikkel, I think this one might have a concussion too – remember how she whacked her head against the bunk this morning? Give her that eye-test-thingie you gave me.”

The medic lumbered over, gently took Tuuri’s chin in one hand, and looked steadily into her eyes for the space of 10 heartbeats, while he probed her scalp with the other hand. She could feel her face growing hot, and wished she could drop her gaze. Instead, she tried to think of the exact shade of dark blue his eyes were. Lake Saimaa in full summer, maybe?

Mikkel let her go and turned to Sigrun. “No, her pupils are the same size, and she focuses and tracks just fine. She’s got a bit of a goose egg back there, but nothing time and maybe a cold compress won’t cure. You, though, are not allowed to grab and throw anyone until I’m satisfied you can actually see straight.”

“Yeah, yeah, you and what army are going to stop me,” the captain said, rolling her eyes.

Once he was out of earshot, she leaned over Tuuri with a sly expression.

“I didn’t actually think you had a concussion, kiddo. I think spring’s coming early for someone. And I wanted to see how you reacted. Haha, you’re still red! Back home in Norway, we’d just lock a couple in the broom closet till they’d gotten it out of their systems. Here – I dunno, I could take the boys hunting for an hour and you’d have the tank to yourselves…”

“Oh, no! No, no, it’s not like that!” Tuuri said, horrified. “I mean – Mikkel’s so big! – er, old! Besides, he’s always ordering me around, just like the Supply-Sergeant at home. I’d never… I couldn’t…”

“OK, kiddo, OK, I believe you,” Sigrun said comfortably. “So how about the pretty Swede? I mean, he screams a lot, but you know what they say about screamers…”

“It’s not _like_ that,” said poor Tuuri, near tears. (Truthfully, early on she had been fascinated by Emil’s golden hair and how it always flowed so gracefully, unlike the rough military haircuts she was used to. But after you’ve stumbled over someone’s sweaty boots a dozen times, removed clots of his blond hair from the shower drain, and mopped up his vomit, the enchantment does fade.)

“Well, little pal, I don’t know what to tell you. You’re probably smart not to get your meat where you get your bread… but it’s not as if Prince Charming is going to come riding out of the forest like in the old stories. Tell you what – the minute we get back to civilization, I’ll pick out a couple of hot prospects for you. Okay?” 

And with a friendly shoulder-punch, the captain strode off.  
“Prince Charming riding out of the forest…” Tuuri murmured.

PART 2   
The little skald went to her desk and pulled out the almanac. Day 42, Old Reckoning, worked out to the date of February 11. She leafed ahead a few pages. Sure enough, February 14 was listed as St. Valentine’s Day. 

Tuuri thought back to the stories her mother used to tell about Valentine’s Day – how it was a love-festival for the Old Timers, and how the birds would pick their mates that morning for the year ahead. 

“And chickie, anyone who sees the birds’ assembly can ask for a sight of their future husband or wife,” her mother would say as she braided Tuuri’s hair. “Remember the song? Lennä, lennä, leppätiira, Miss' päi miu morsiammei, Onks Sivossa vai Savossa, Vai oma pello pientareella?” ("Fly, fly, tern. Where is my loved one, Is she/he in Sivo or Savo, or in my field’s ground?")

Tuuri pulled out her stash of birchbark sheets, which she used for personal writings she didn’t want to be accountable for. (She’d been lectured more than enough at Keuruu about how expensive typewriter ribbons are and how many man-hours of fishing and lumbering they cost.) She doodled absently with a carbon pencil as memories overwhelmed her.

How her father, coming home from the sawmill in the evening, would call, “Where’s my little princess?” and swing her up off the ground with a kiss. Then, “Where’s my strong warrior?” and lastly, “Where’s the queen of the castle?” At which her mother would hurry over, even smudged with garden soil, paint, or flour, and he’d swing her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than Tuuri.

She remembered that the neighbors always said her parents were a real love match, just like in the old stories. Her father had had a bride arranged for him -- but he broke the engagement, signed on with a crew of timber brokers, and spent four years trading all around Lake Saimaa.

And when at last the scandal had died down, her father showed up with a bride he’d picked out all on his own. A stranger, an orphan, an Old Believer, with no family ties to share, no land-rights or business-shares to bestow, no livestock, machines, or furniture in her dowry, just a box of clothes and a paint-kit. 

“She’s not even all that pretty, with that dark foreign hair,” Tuuri had heard one old woman say to another. “And yet Jussi dotes over her like a rooster with one hen.”

“Well, women have their ways,” the other one had replied. And then their voices had sunk too low for Tuuri, up on the watch platform, to hear them.

Ways, Tuuri pondered. Delightful ideas began bubbling up, and she giggled a little as she put the pages back in the drawer.

(TO BE CONTINUED...)


End file.
